Fuck Up

The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“You’re a fuck up, you’re a fuck up, you’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckup.”


The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“You’re a fuck up, you’re a fuck up, you’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckup.”


The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“You’re a fuck up, you’re a fuck up, you’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckup.”


The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“You’re a fuck up, you’re a fuck up, you’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckupyou’reafuckup.”

Yeah…Ok…I know…

The tape is switched to a new loop.

The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“Everything you touch you break.”

I know.

The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“Everything you touch you break.”

I know.

The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“Everything you touch you break.”

I know……Everything good that comes into my life I manage to breakshatterturntodustscatterthosewhodon’tknowmeverywellbutwillusemefortheirown







The tape is switched to a new loop.

The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“How can you be so stupid?”

I dunno.

The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“How can you be so stupid?”


The Play button is pressed. The loop begins again.

“How can you be so stupid?”


The only sound is the heavy tread of my boots and the pounding in my head as the migraines I’ve fought for days come marching in two by two Hurrah, Hurrah… And the tapes lay behind me, busted and broken with the ribbons strewn about like a cyclone hit the tinsel aisle in The Christmas Shop.

But I know there are still multiple copies out there…



Untitled dialogue

“You heave and you huff your prayers down on your knees thinking your “Goddess” hears you.  You’ll bleed your last breath out, choking on your red misted spittle, your snot running bloody tracks and trails down your face and you still think you will be answered? Really?”

Another hard kick to the gut followed the chastising.

I knelt, my nose indeed running bloody, my spit tasting of a dozen copper pennies, struggling mightily against coughing until my body and my lungs seized and all I could do was puke red…for what seemed like forever…

I wiped my mouth with the back of my left hand when I realised I could, when I realized that the words wouldn’t hurt me for the moment. My right hand hadn’t moved off the floor from when I’d first fallen.That hand was my lifesaver.  Fucked up thumb, pinky, scars and all. That hand was keeping me connected, grounded, and for as much as I wanted to fall, upright.

Y’gotta respect a hand like that.

To say nothing of the arm connected to it, busted once, but still holding the meat-bag attached to it as up and not full on her face as possible. Especially after the legs failed.

The meat-bag, meaning me, spit one last glob out and nailed the bitch right on her perfectly manicured foot. I watched its slow dribble down the imperfect slope, leaving a trail like a mortally wounded snail, crimson slowly fading to pink, until the teardrop of mucous, spit, and blood heavily dripdropped between the sole of her foot and the sole of her footwear.

I admit it. I kinda hoped it made the rest of her night squishy and uncomfortable. Which, honestly, is kinda odd when you think about it.

I looked up. Looked at her straight in the face…saw the smirk. The set of the jaw. The familiar eyes of gentle green overflowing, overwhelmed by the gold of anger.

And smiled, teeth rimmed red, feeling the blood trickle down the sides of my upturned grin. After all, when you finally face yourself, after all the beatings and brutalization you’ve put yourself through…?

Y’gotta grin.

“You don’t scare me.”


Bear with, please. This may be another meandering sort of post.

The chain I wear the Wheel on Broke last Sunday.

Granted, it had extra weight from the Hand (“Healing” according to the Tlingit artist…) but still…

I saw the chain dangling on my belly as I tried to tuck my shirt in after pissing in the bathroom…

I found both of them again….but…the Wheel…she…eluded me for a bit. And…the one named “Life” actually…maybe…understood how much it meant to me…because she tried to find it too..

The Wheel of Brigid.


Brigid is the Triple Goddess of Celtic Mythology…The Goddess of Poetry, Healing, and Smithcraft…See…and this is where I start to make people look at me like “Ooooookay…you’re a whacko…”

I was brought up with a Triple God. The Father, The Son, and The Holy..Ghost…Spirit…holy shit whatever.

I…have read….probably more things than is healthy for me…on certain topics. Which…makes me seem…odd…or a freak if I actually bring this up in conversation….so…I don’t….


I wear the Wheel …(and now the Hand) because…

Because…I believe there is a Feminine Divinity beyond what I have been taught…because when I was younger and reading like a goddamn bookworm I learned about Brigid before the Catholic Saint and felt…holy…really? Wait…wait…something isn’t right…

And that’s when I began to question. Everything. Much to my chagrin and peril…

When you’re nine years old and starting to question your beliefs in a religious school setting…it doesn’t work out well. Also please trust when I say the chagrin and peril have been in amounts that would make a normal human puke their guts up until they have no more.

So…I keep my mouth shut about most of my beliefs now.

I believe that we are all inter-connected, whether we want to be or not.

I believe that we have lost sight of certain things.

I did.

Balance, for starters. (Although historically gravity and I don’t get along very well, I DO believe in Balance.)

It’s remarkably easy to be angry. And hurt. And hurtful. And it doesn’t matter who you lash out to…in the end…the only one you’re hurting is yourself.  People will turn away as easy as a snap of the fingers because Hey…I don’t have time for your “inadequacies.”. And you sit and you stew and you turtle and inside, all the time….you hurt and you bleed a little more of your life out and say “I DON’T WANT TO BE HURT”!!!!!!!

My pain? Epic, sometimes.

No one wants to be hurt. Ever. Not even the most masochistic person. Because they STILL have a safe word. Now…whether they ever choose to say it…? *shrug*

We believe what…we learn. What lessons we take from our elders we make our own. It’s easier that way, right?


See…that way just leads to…death. Not necessarily of life. But your spirit dies.

I know this because I’ve lived this, and in some ways I’m still living this. And in another corner of my world…I’m watching a gentle soul I’ve known for….30 years now…?…he’s still dying.

I don’t know at what point the trigger clicks and you say “Enough”. Honestly. I’ve said that before and still I’m now knee deep in the mire…

Maybe it’s more of “Enough…” and then you reach out to grasp and fail and turtle and grasp and fail and turtle and turtle and turtle…until one day for no good reason at all except that you happen (for once) to be at the right place at the right time …you come across someone enough like you but different enough that you can say…even after a lot of fuckupidry on your own part…hold out your hand..chagrined and chastened…but your hand remains out…”Hi. So we’re both kinda fucked up. Now what?”

And…somehow…in my head anyway, this leads me to…this.

I am much more like my Grandmother. Mom…Mom was right in this much.

Granma didn’t give up easily.

Neither do I.

Goddess help me.


It helps that I have the same warped sense of humor…

It gets…got…us…through a lot.

And I DO think she would’ve spit her “Four Roses” out laughing at this…


And so, and thus.

Poly-dodeca-icsosa-and so and on and on and on…

A polyhedron is is what you see in Cairo. The Pyramids. It’s basically a bunch of angles and corners that all equal the same length.It’s a three dimensional shape with flat plains and sharp edges (Four flat plains and…six…? sharp edges….I think) …but always, always…everything mathematically works.

A dodecahedron is a polyhedron writ larger. Twelve flat plains with sharp angles (18?) _that will always equal the same length and width and size…

And then there’s the Icosahedron. Twenty flat faces, thirty sharp angles (maybe…?). And if you roll a natural 20 you’ve vanquished (usually). And if you roll a natural 1?

Too bad. So sad. Roll another character. You’re dead.

A squared plus B squared equals C squared.

I understand the Pythagorean theorem, for as ridiculous as that may sound.

It’s not…

It isn’t even. There’s a right angle you have to account for that may go on for days and days and days…but…at some point, if you apply the theorem…you’ll get the answer.

And you can eventually work out the square in the angle too…

For whatever good that may do…

Life…Isn’t just Mathematics or Fractiles (no matter how much I may love Mandelbrot…because it’s just a recursion that goes on and on and on…and…that’s not LIFE…)

Geometry…Mathematics…Science, Psychology, Philosophy all try to and fail to take into account (despite the volumes and volumes and volumes written on human “behavior”)…

We actually…every one of us…are not just Science.

Can we be taught/driven/counseled/forced/beseeched/forced by what we have known until the point…even though…no matter how hard we try….yes. We “are who we are”…?

Life…may be Mathematics by Nature.

By Nurture?

It will never, ever, be as simple as a Right Angle.

Or a Twenty-sided die on which you stand or fall depending on how well you roll.

And no matter how you want to bag it up and stuff it or toss it…toss…it…

The feelings are still there. They will remain.

It’s not Math. It’s not Science. It’s neither History, Philosophy, Psychology. or Religion.

It’s the simple act of…being human. And for as much as there is out there telling us how we “should” be…


The….achingly…heartbreakingly…simple truth is…

I am…because I’ve gotten this far.

That’s it.

No more. No less.

And truth?


I’m vulnerable.


Why I Write…Now…

“How far are you willing to go to gut yourself?”

“…if it hurts to write that much…it’s probably better to stop.”

^Both the above sentences are very much paraphrased, because my memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be. (K still stands for Potassium, Cl for Chloride, and Ca for Calcium, though…) But both sentences (minus my memory paraphrase) have been in conversations I’ve had this week.

“Talking”……may work best for me. And this is me, talking. Yes, you can’t see my face, or my body language, but do, trust…it’s there.

“Have you looked at x and y and zed in your life and oh by the way I think you may be this so here’s the name of a nice psychiatrist…” …

…Who will put you on five different medications the ONLY one of which I remember is “Wellbutrin”…which is the one that triggers the same chemicals in your head as snorting coke. And…I think…getting a tattoo. Endorphins, I believe may be involved. I don’t remember and I can’t be buggered to look right now.

And then you go back to the “therapist” and you talk some more and suggestions are given and you nod and say “ok”…except you’re so fucking drugged up that thinking is slow and you do try, you do try to incorporate words you’ve been told into yourself and try not to be so…anything…because it is actually sound advice but you’re moving through molasses and your affect AND effect has become…dead…yeah…sure…whatever you want.

“I know that’s funny. And I know I should be laughing.”

CBT may work fucking wonders for people. Not for me.

I admit I can be a Miserable fuck. An Angry fuck. An over the top slowyourrollchild fuck.


I write because I can’t disguise that anymore. I’ve no Poker Face, as anyone who actually pays attention can tell you. Feelings will flit across like fruitflies and I may clamp down, but there’s the set jaw, the tension…That’s the dead giveaway that there’s more going on than I’m saying…

I feel because my mother didn’t want to and tried to teach me her lesson and no no no fuck you NO.



I am not stone. I am not steel. I am flesh and I am blood and yes it hurts but goddammit that means I’M ALIVE. I. AM. ALIVE.

I’m not listening to opera at 3:00am. I’m not biting the heads off of other people who ask innocent questions (…er….usually…I…think).

I am doing my level fucking best not to regret every fucking decision I’ve ever made, including up to a few hours ago. I am not Grandma. I’m not Aunt Joan (your best friend, by the way)…and I sure as hell am NOT YOU.

Will I fail?

Depends on your definition of failure.

Am I skittering once again down into the sewer of my depression?


And that’s why I’ve been writing. Because I….have to. Holding it in does me no good anymore. I learned that last year…

You can only build up so many walls to keep the hatred in…self and otherwise…the loathing…self and otherwise…because you weren’t “perfect” in that one…crucial moment. You turned out to be human, and there is no forgiveness for that there can’t be and you twist and turn the logic into this into that into anything goddamit until it’s not so much logic as…macrame done…by the scared scarred little kid inside trying to please someone…anyone.

Four women in my life. Did them wrong in one way or another. Saw two of them off in caskets. One, least got a small thing at the chapel in St. Stephens. One?

Don’t even know where she’s buried. Or…even if she’s buried. Or if he smoked…her….to ditch her…


You can pile down pile drive hate yourself into the ground until…until you just want to disappear…which was me.

This time, last year. See…it’s kinda fucked for me in some ways…October my mom died…December was my Granma’s birthday AND death (died 2 days before her 98th), February is my mom’s birthday…Carlos (Pops) is in January…

I couldn’t do a fucking thing for any of them. Not one thing. Including my mother.

She gave up.



I gave up.

I can’t carry the anger anymore. I can’t keep the walls up anymore. It’s too much…it’s fucking too much….I was angry when my friends in the “Dumb Luck Club” met me in High School so that’s what…? 35+ years maybe more of carrying some kind of anger around….?

I can’t do it anymore. and yes…I will get and have gotten hurt by…allowing myself to be vulnerable…and yes, there are scabs open and dripping…and scars that itch and more scars forming from new scabs that still leak…because I…but….

I write because if I don’t, I’ll just sink back down into myself and pull the black around me like a cloak and…

I don’t want that anymore…

So…please….be patient with me.

I may be short-tempered…I may regress (call me out)…I may say nothing (force me to talk)…I may look like hell on a slate roof at the end of it all…but…

Be patient with me.

I write.


I Am.

And…I will not be the person I was…no matter how much my knees may buckle.

Hands out, breathing….this…is what I got.

Be patient.



Remember when MTV actually used to play music videos? And then would gather bits up into video shows like “Headbanger’s Ball”? And then there was “120 minutes”? And then there was “Liquid Television”, which, for better or worse, gave us “Aeon Flux” (do NOT judge the animation to the movie. It’s like judging a book by its cover or a person for the shields they put up) and “Bevis and Butthead” (…I am…somewhat…bemused…to admit I do a pretty good Bevis imitation…) and then then “Daria”. (Also kind of “King of the Hill”…)

The Daria love is for another time.

“Today on Sick Sad World!!!!!!…:





AMP was MTV’s recognition of the music what we now lump into one category as “EDM”. Electronic Dance Music.

It was when musicians realized that they could make music with a couple of turntables, a decent mixer,

and  a computer.

(Please note – this is nothing more than a progression from Disco and Rap to another generation with more technology at their…heh…fingertips…and there are so many categories of EDM that…Drum and Bass, Trance, Ambient, Jungle, Europop, Progressive, Industrial, Glitch Hop, Techno – the “original” moniker…way more than I can remember off the top of me tipsy head. But, hit up Google if you want to learn more)

It hit me like a sledgehammer to the breastbone, the first time I ever watched AMP in the closet of a studio apartment I shared with my ex-wife and two cats and holy…fucking…christ….

There was this music…that…

Made my blood flow and my shoulders drop and had so much fucking energy that I could feel it my fingertips…and made me unconsciously move because I can’t fucking help myself…it’s like the Pied Piper and I’m one of the Rats…

The Chemical Brothers
The Crystal Method
The Prodigy
Fatboy Slim
Lo-Fidelity Allstars

and then…heh…

Paul Oakenfold
Tiesto (before he was DJ Tiesto)
Kosheen (who evolved…wonderfully from what I knew…and I would do anything to have her voice…)

…and those really are off the top of my tipsy little head…

It’s….the…beat…the sound that winds around me like the snake around Eve in the Garden of Eden and says “Take a bite and let go”…That twists and turns me into the thing that lets the soundwaves hit,buffet, and then flow through like water…like water…like…water…

Free running, not caring, not giving a good goddamn what I look like when I can actually let go and dance…


*BT. He’s still spinning, and has a podcast and show on DI.FM (Digitally Imported – Trance channel. Which I can now only listen to at home…meh)…

This was the first video I’d ever seen of his (featuring M. Doughty on vocals)…but…he…introduced me to Dj Rap…


From our 2016 standpoint…yeah, it’s creepy stalker at certain points.

But…when I first saw it…it made me look up DJ Rap…who remains one of the world’s top Female DJ’s…

And…who..I rediscovered this week, along with BT. And..this…song…


It’s good to be alive.

Also…the album it’s from is called “Learning Curves”.

Forgot about that bit…but…I…have…a steep learning curve sometimes….



…since sleep keeps escaping…

I am bound and fucking determined to learn of all of the words to this song…regardless of how many times I sprain something. (Honestly, it’s either going to be my jaw, my tongue, or my brain…Brain coming in at #1)

I have loved this song since I was…16? Still can’t get it all right. And I’ve been trying since the first time I heard it. So…yeah…